


No Future For You

by 30daysin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Chaptered, Drug Use, Multi, Non-magical AU, Punk, Punk Era, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:56:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6786148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/30daysin/pseuds/30daysin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1978. Poverty levels are high. The working class is getting screwed. The streets gain new heights of trash each day. Sirens fill the air with its ghostly calls, and the police are gone as soon as they come. Let’s face it: England is shite. Any voice is a loaded gun, no matter how it speaks. </p><p>James Potter and Sirius Black have taken a liking to holding guns with their tongues, and it's only a matter of time before they're firing off at one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sex and Violence

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to my lovely editor (who keeps me in check with realism and not convoluted murder-plot theories), Pronqsie! And to you all: may your blood boil, may you kick shit, and may you spit on everything you see.

There’s something a bit too intense about the man across the set. Something in his eyes as he looks at the man of the hour, a newscaster by the name of Thomas Crosby, host of the eight o’ clock news. It’s the perfect time; a time when all the little London families will be nestled up tight in their townhouses, eating their sausages and potato pancakes, and perhaps even letting the breeze drift through the white linen of their townhome curtains as a cool reprieve from the groggy, summer night. A perfect time for what, exactly? Well, it’s the “exactly’s” that make him nervous. It’s the pretense of the thing that makes him nervous, makes him stare deep into the depth’s of the older interviewer’s eyes with a look akin to murder by poison. 

 

The wall behind him is beige. The couch beneath him is beige. The old man’s suit is beige. Upon them he is a splattering of ink, covered head to toe in black. His limbs ooze over the furniture like a spider on china, and vaguely, somewhere far off, he knows he’s worn his favorite shirt, his favorite stab at capitalism, and thus his bank account: a shirt, already tattered and smelling of sweat, with two cowboys and their cocks out. Somewhere else he knows that the producers of the show wouldn’t let him drag himself onto the set without his jacket - which might’ve been even worse, given the layer of chipped pink paint on leather, and the texture of all those buttons and pins. 

 

Maybe even worst of all, his boots are old, are leather, are  _ unbuckled _ . 

 

The film is grainy. The sound is echoing. Slowly but surely, the camera pans in on this man, and the sound from your television set gets stronger, and you can hear it now… 

 

“What is punk? Isn’t that a question for the ages.” A scoff at the silly interviewer from the man. Audacious, even in the presence of a gift. “Punk is an art, mate. It’s life’s art.” 

 

“Is that all?”

 

“No - no, of course not. It’s always more, always been more. Punk’s been happening right under your nose for ages, surprised you couldn’t sniff it.”

 

“More? Are you implying that this way of life has been in England since - since the birth of our country?” And a giggle from the interviewer, foolish in their attacks. “Would you care to explain? Anything at all?”

 

“All right, all right. Here’s how it goes: punk is…” The young punk pauses a moment, and the intensity in his eyes almost instantly is smothered as a bit of glee appears, and only appears so it can hide another layer of smirk. “It’s what happens when people start actually living, and not for what the media tells us. The media kills us, mate. We’re alive, we’re breathing -  for the individual. What the mainstream has told us all our lives is to sit in a tidy, little box and perform for the factories and make your sales rocket.” And he pauses here once again, his smile going to an ephemeral, queasy grin, skipping out on the bark of the laugh he’d usually put out. He is nervous, after all. “We’re anti-everything, but explicitly anti-suit.”

 

The interviewer laughs to himself then, boisterous in his glee to be at war with the boyish man across from him. “I can’t help but wonder what your mother thinks when she sees you pop up to church on Sunday morn’!” 

 

What the man doesn’t mention to the interviewer is his mother. He doesn’t mention his religious views, doesn’t mention what she likes to do once church is over, and Sunday evening rolls around. Doesn’t mention how incredibly fucked that sentence is. Only his smile stays, but his eyes harden. “Right.” Comes a drawl. And silence. 

 

“And about the clothing? There’s a specific style that we associate with punks, isn’t there?” Once his laugh is over, he gestures to the clothing on display. The man is jolly enough to pretend as if the pink has blinded him. The laugh begins where it ended. 

 

“Beige, navy - they’re very bland colors. We’ll leave them to the prime minister. We’re tired of it. Damn, sick and tired.” 

 

“Anything else you’d like to say?”

 

“Nothing else that you can take the piss out of, you old, fucking bastard?”

 

There’s a hush around the studio, the only kind that’s accompanied by quick gasps that pulls all the air into one place. There’s a fumbling around as the sound guy lets his mic slip, and another as the director motions with the cut of his neck; get off the air.

 

“Well, all right. I think that’s enough for today. Again, this is Sirius Black, and I’m Thomas Crosby. You’re watching Tonight, and may you have a good one.” There’s something noticeably whiter than the thin, lizardly man from before. This was his deathbed - the network sort.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

James looked up the sky to see in just the perfect moment the redacted, heavenly hue of yellow, pale white, swirling pink, and translucent against the billowing black of the smog. The sun had peeked out through the clouds and cast a ray down upon the old brick of the factory, beautiful, dismissive of the life of Londoners at the time, and he thought, if not a bit stereotypically and joyfully how maybe - just maybe - his life was probably going in the right direction. And then he thought in the strange connections that his mind made, about how it was probably all owed to this new life he had joined. The new life he was creating. And it was punk. Punk was his reprieve, punk was the sun shining through the smoke of the factory. James had always been the one to search out the light, because he’d always found joy - whatever the shape and form it came in - in the bits of life that were so much like himself. Ironic, sure, for the movement seemed to reject what was viewed as happiness to make way for a more primal desire. But fuck it, right? Desires were desires nonetheless.

 

It was strange at first. James didn’t quite get punk when he’d first seen it in action, just like the rest of England. Like the tellie had told him to do.

 

Rock and roll was still good, if not more somber. It wasn’t like the rock of old where everyone was had dreams and promises. The rock of the 60’s had made it how it was today, anyhow; it was the flower children that had caused the divide and screwed over the economy, and, let’s face it, whose fashion sense was completely worn. Their happy-go-lucky views had gotten the country nowhere besides down. No, the rock he knew nowadays was slow vocals dipped in booze and sadness. He’d loved it, loved dressing up in his leather jackets and leather pants, wifebeaters, slicking his hair back and seeing the Pub Rock shows where everyone was forty and up and he, he was the sixteen year old, the rebellious one, the fresh one who always had a smile where the regular patrons did not. 

 

Booze and sadness was the tone of his life for a while. Working in a factory does that to you, even if you know everyone there and they all look up to you. His father had worked in the factory his whole life, and so James would too, but his father had made a name for himself through the church and the neighborhood. The Potters were the kindest of all the people in the small neighborhood of Godric’s Hollow, for his mother would always whip up a casserole fresh for parties of twenty people each weekend, and his father was the head of the union at their factory, always seemed to have the voice of the people on the tip of his tongue, and even came off as a celebrity when he was invited to preach at the local church. 

 

And James? James was always the brightest boy out of his school friends. He was always the first to climb up the birch trees and was always the one to help the other kids down when they were too afraid. He was also the cutest, if the pinches on his rosy cheeks from doting grandmothers was anything to go by. James was the golden boy. 

 

The Potters - they didn’t have much, but they had pride in what they did and who they were, and they were good people. 

 

But then again, the Potters were being tricked into thinking their lives were greater than he knew it to be. See, punk was hedonistic. It was about violence - which he’d chalked up to some rowdy boys that wanted to get piss drunk and cause trouble with the cops - and sex - which he was getting increasingly less of, ever since Lily was so interested in becoming an academic at the Catholic university, and it was - it was different, having the love between them but no passion, sexual or otherwise - and it made him rethink everything he was doing with his life, like working in the factory instead of going to college because his family couldn’t afford for him to leave the house. 

 

… And it was because of this that he got it. James Potter understood punk for the simple fact: punk was everything he didn’t have because it was a rejection of what he was living. It didn’t care about whether or not you had money. It rejected money. It wanted you to punch things, fuck things, and live life without caring. It was better than rock and roll. It had taken rock apart and put it back new like frankenstein, but a better version. It made him feel… accepted. It made him feel like he wasn’t stuck. James Potter was a punk, and he knew this deep in his heart. 

 

That’s why he liked punk. Because it was the actions that could take him to new heights. Being able to get a little violent without it being totally frowned upon didn’t seem too bad, either. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s pretty normal for the venues to be packed. The scene was small, so small, but throwing off enough output for people to be joining every day. There’s not enough bands for there to be standing room - but it’s not like people even want that. Everyone wants to rush the stage because no one is afraid of a little boshing here and there. The sight of a packed venue full of shouting kids is enough to speed up the heart of anyone in a delightful, intoxicating way. Spitting, pogoing with their vicious jumps and twists and kicks as the singer shouts back at you just as rage fueled and delighted, all at once.

 

The only difference is that it’s getting later, and the crowd is getting rowdier. Somehow word always gets around to the skinheads. Some may not even be skinheads, but disliking racism doesn’t mean you don’t have a thirst to kick someone in the stomach and watch as he pukes out all the booze consumed that night. They’re a new crowd at that. The fake kind, the kind that believed all the media hype when it blew its white, middle aged mouth off about violence being “their” way.

 

Sirius couldn’t help but let his eyes wander in time with his thoughts, a displeased grimace forming over his mouth. “Look at that. Someone’s already thrown their booze all over the amps. Savages.” he thought, instead his mouth forming his eyes quipping back to the stage anxious and glassy, “Oi! It’s bloody shite! Off the stage with ya’, wankers!”

 

But Sirius had never been the voice of reason, especially when his feet kept popping up the way they did. A loogie had already formed in his mouth, ready to be purged from his body and onto the singer’s leg.

 

Even more surprisingly, the band’s playing on. Echo, static, reverb, harsh noise. And the bassist has already started kicking over the amplifier in a mix of screeches and roars from the crowd. Sirius wouldn’t have expected any different from a Sham 69 show. 

 

Whatever. The beer was still flowing. The crowd was still rowdy. He’d stay until the coppers came knocking down the door. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It wasn’t uncommon for shows to be so packed, so rowdy, and he knew he shouldn’t be mad, but… the bloke behind him was absolutely obnoxious. James had pushed his way to the front, was shouting at the feet of Jimmy Pursey - the fucking legend - when the singer feigned a kick at his head, and in his back… something tight pressed against his bum. And a shout came wailing straight into his ear. 

 

“Oi! It’s bloody shite! Off the stage with ya’, wankers!”

 

James gets spit on his ear by a gleek. None of these things are supposed to piss him off, none of them. It was normal. This was a show. This is how they did things at shows - but still, the bloke was too close. It may have been the booze talking. It was probably the booze. After all, punks didn’t have etiquette. 

 

“Ey! Sod off!” James turned around to give the other man a shove, but the venue is more packed than he’d previously thought, and he’s much more blitz than he’d thought as well. He can only get about halfway there and put his hands on the other’s chest - who’s so tight up in the euphoria of the crowd that he doesn’t even take a glance down at the other - when the crowd suddenly pushes forward. His hip shoves painfully - fucking mind numbingly dull pain - into the wooden stage, and the only thing he can do is turn fully and fall on his back, thrown head back onto the stage - with the other man following with him.

 

The man pressing up against him so tight has greasy hair, has sweat pouring down his front onto the white of his t-shirt - which is slowly soaking up Jame’s tank, and he’s about ready to murder - and takes notice, looking rightfully pissed off. Still throwing up a fist as he’s glaring down, confused and angry at the one below him, but pissed even still. 

 

Something indignant shows through James’ bleary eyes, and he places his hands on the other man’s shoulders now, snarling as he pushes forth. Louder this time, he shouts, “Sod! Off!” But it’s nearly impossible, and the man’s hands are upon him now. As any reasonable human being would be when they’re being told to move away from the front of the crowd by a blatant drunk. Not that the other isn’t drunk, just not as drunk as James. But he tries, does he try. James is pushing off the man, and the man is pushing off him, holding onto each other like an angry tango, wriggling against the force of the crowd and against each other. “Oh, bugger you!” This stranger shouts, a feeble retaliation. 

 

“No, bugger you! What are you, a shirtlifter?”

 

The man on top seems to take a moment to pause and remember the shirt he’s been wearing for three days - cowboys touching cocks - and his expression drops for a moment. Right good observation there, can’t even be mad at it. Somehow he finds the strength to lift off of James then, and while they’re still close enough to touch noses at least he hasn’t gotten the other bend over like a twist toy. 

 

“Like I buggered your mum last night, huh?” Not the smoothest of lines, not even by a longshot, but it makes James flare up like a hissing cat. There was the the decent comeback. 

 

“You better watch your mouth there. You better watch your fucking mouth, ya’ ponce.” James is as sloppy as a fish with his tongue, and he makes an even sloppier attempt to grab hold of the dreaded cowboy shirt which ends up more of a fisting, and a tugging forward, and then they’re both invading the other’s personal privacy in a dreaded way once more. 

 

God, the booze on his breath must’ve been like a hurricane of scent. 

 

He’s only taller by an inch, if that, this cowboy-cock-toucher. He’s lankier by a thousand degrees and knows it, knows the instant the white boniness of his knuckles flares up against the lug of James’ arm, knows the only way he’d probably win a fight with James is to dodge, duck, and maybe get him to trip over the rope of his leg - but he’s still got a look in his eye. Something detached, like a blackened eye one night wouldn’t mean anything in the next three days, and that - that’s what eggs James on the most. Maybe he’s not cocky, but at the very least he doesn’t give half a shit - 

 

“I’m not the one who’s holding on so tight. You fancy a fight, or you fancy me?” It’s not a challenge, but a taunt, hissed but still heard over the listless noise of the show. 

 

\- And, okay, he definitely is cocky. 

 

Lily, of all people, pops into his head. Retakes the vision of the man in front of him, a drop of sweat dripping down his brow, a dewy sheen coating the nape of his neck and the swell of his arms, and he has to stop himself because  - no brain, you do not have to justify yourself, just this once. Especially not now. 

 

“You - you fucker, you…” It must’ve been quite the vision, because this mutt of a man is looking puzzled before him and starting to push his hands away. James’ fists only tighten. “Outside. We’re getting this over with.” 

 

He’s never quite manhandled people before. He’s just strong by nature, built up like his Pa. It’s not so difficult to pull and push the other man through the crowd, even if he does, in fact, use his longer leg to get the trick up on James - multiple times. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Killing the mood is actually pretty simple: just take ten minutes fisting a shirt and tripping over one another like two grade-schoolers about to get it outside in the parking lot. That, and have a pink hue to your cheeks, have your lips parted like an infant who hasn’t quite learned to breath right yet, and make sure, most definitely, that your breath would kill a rat if it got near.

 

Also, make sure you’ve been circling one another in said parking lot for ten minutes straight in the world’s longest stare down. 

 

“You want it, you got it. I’ll give you a right good pounding.”

 

“Oh yeah? I’ll give you a freebie. Right here.” Sirius taps a point on his chin, leaning in forward a little too precariously for someone so inebriated. He’s just a better drunk.

 

This bloke, wifebeater tank and gelled up hair, circles forward, has his fists raised, but can’t ever seem to make himself swing. He stops, spits on the ground, and tosses Sirius a grin. God, either he’s too much of a sissy to use the mass of muscles he’s pioneered, of he’s truly a kinder, gentler soul underneath all the rubber of his outfit. Or far too drunk. 

 

“I couldn’t do it in good faith. Couldn’t bring myself to take advantage of a poor bloke like you. You’ll go first. I’d like to see you land one.” He’s saying now, even as he sidewinds his way over to Sirius, who’s got a vicious grin on his face, partially because he’s got an open option and partially because he knows they’re too drunk to do anything, and the poor bastard in front of him - the poor, arrogant bastard - is making him giggle.

 

“All right. Your wish is my command, you knob.”

 

“Tosser.”

 

“Git.”

 

“Arse-licker.”

 

“Chav -”

 

“Oi! Too close to home!” James points a finger up to the other, but they’re far from circling each other, and he’s got a sort of lazy grin to him. “Don’t you dare call me a Chav. Of all the things, a Chav? Really?”

 

“Woops! Sorry, mate!” And Sirius isn’t so sorry, but he’s not so angry, and more or less a bit gleeful. And he no longer has his fists up.

 

It takes a moment for the other man to realize it, but he does, just as Sirius has; they’re both smiling at each other. Unpleasantly, tauntingly for a smile, but they’re both in it. It’s unreal. It’s also pointless, he knows. Smiles mean less fighting. Smiles mean a fight is explicitly over. He heaves a sigh, pointedly obnoxious, and slowly shifts onto the curb. Grumbling, “I’m not your mate…” 

 

A crowd of other punks, drunk and giggling and laughing and squealing, pass by between them. Sirius is about to respond, maybe out of pity or some deeply set desire to make a mockery of all who challenge him, and he’s cut out. He hates it when that happens. It’s like this was supposed to happen. Some unknown force was trying to pry them apart so that he couldn’t get the last word. He could imagine it. The bearded God his mother had always spoke so righteously of, wagging his finger down from the parted, night sky. A fission of color through the smog and street lights. The voice would speak from the heavens, “All right, Sirius. You’ve had your fun. Years of it.”

 

But no voice comes. No finger to be wagged. It’s these sort of moments that kill an instant of connections in life. A single beat to interrupt a conversation and it’s dead in the water. Instead, the punks pass by, and the other man, rubber and all, is still there. It’s his shock to see that the other is still there, looking off to the side with the remnant of a smile. Should’ve left, he should’ve. Then again, he himself didn’t leave. It’s a moment of connections. It speaks more volumes than any finger wagging God could’ve. 

 

This man doesn’t even take a breath to react and think, only throws his arms on top of his knees, rolling his head about with the something new and light in his features. “You look like the kind who has a smoke.”

 

“Oh, yes. Sure.” Sirius is still a little lost in the awe of the happenings of things when he answers, an expression totally clear of any tenacity, only purely sincere. Pleasant, really. He reaches and tugs - with some effort - the metal tin out of a pocket plastered to his leg. “You didn’t quite get a good enough feel of it back there?”

 

If it were anyone else the joke wouldn’t have hit so spot on. The perfect border between a joke that would’ve gone too far in nature, and the charisma that can carry it along without problems. Delivered too lightly, and a punch in the face may have actually come to fruition.

 

It’s obvious that this other man thinks this, for he doesn’t attempt to punch Sirius in the face, and he doesn’t lose the quirk of his lips upwards. He only takes the smoke offered to him, and waits as the lighter is passed. “Again, you’ve got to cool it with that!” The laugh that ensues is what stops him from lighting the smoke right away, only makes Sirius more proud of it. “Really, though. I thought you were some sort of cyborg. Metal skin, thick metal head.”

 

“You’ve got an imagination as thick as your muscles, don’t you? You know, you shouldn’t talk to your robot superior like that.”

 

“Robot superior?”

 

“Yes. Oh, definitely superior.”

 

“And what makes you say that? Really, saying I’ve got an imagination…”

 

“What? You do! I’m only building on what you’ve got!”

 

“Ever heard of a joke?”

 

“Ever heard of a joke… all right. Okay. Here’s what makes me superior: I’ve got the brains, and we all know that brains are what count in this world.”

 

“Ooooh, so elite, aren’t you? Very high and mighty! Our robot leader has the brains!”

 

“Okay. All right. I’ll give you that. I did sound like a prat just then, didn’t I?”

 

“You did. You’ve sounded like a prat all night.”

 

“That’s fair.”

 

“It should be. I regret to inform your Robot Highness that there’s no hierarchy in the robot world. Fairness is the only only permeating existence.”

 

“Quite some bit words you’re using, eh?”

 

“Again - “

 

“- I know, I know -”

 

“- Really mate, institutionalized robot caste systems -”

 

“- Such a shame, the destruction of society as we know it. Can’t help but notice that those are some very big words you’re using there -”

 

“Oi! Again!” 

 

They’ve been talking, laughing, melding for damn near five minutes, or so it feels, and Sirius is absolutely alight with barking laughter, can’t even smoke down a cigarette to save his life, and the other - he’s doing the same, showing a new expression, something truer, more innocent, more sincere. 

 

It’s the sincerity that causes them to both stop short, breaths caught in their chests, and soon cigarettes to both their lips. 

 

These things happen, don’t they? 

 

You can get along perfectly well with the bloke you’re about to fight.

 

You can actually enjoy the company of the bloke you were about to fight.

 

Right?

 

They’re both thinking it. Both thinking that they should probably stop calling each other bloke in their heads, and start figuring out some names. They’re both confident enough to voice it, but Sirius has always cared less about trivial things, and so he asks, “Oi. What’s your name?”

 

This man sits up a bit straighter, and his smile is gone. He ruffles the curls atop his head, bites his lip, laughs a forced, pushed out laugh. The answer comes rushing forth, but it's all right by Sirius. He can see it, can read in his own magical way the minds of others before they even speak; this man is praying, somewhere deep down, that he doesn't seem to eager. 

 

“James Potter. Yours?”

  
“Sirius. Sirius Black.”


	2. New Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Air is a wonderful thing. You can breathe it. You can fly in it. You can smoke because of it. So what in the bloody hell is in it to be causing so much change?
> 
> Bob Dylan was a right, dirty bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to my editor of the week (while my other editor is busy) angryspaceravenclaw! Very quick and very professional! Bless her, and may my second half of this fic live up to expectations!

 

Could’ve sworn the shirt had been there, hovering through the bodies of the crowd. Egregious. Nasty. Floating cowboys, and their floating cocks.

 

Could’ve sworn. Would swear.

 

“ _ Fuck _ .”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The paint was still sticky black on his fingers from painting the house - the entire house - the inky color. Even with the windows open , the fumes still permeated the air. Of course, the windows were tiny, and embedded in brick. The air filtered in was filthy, groggy, pushing back upon the gas, creating a sort of horrendous, man made storm. 

 

It’s late. Really late. One would expect the sewers to stop stinking when the sun stopped bearing down on the streets, but it was that kind of summer. 

 

There’s others. In the two months of living here , he’s always seen others. The faces changed often simply for the reason that most people who squat around other, filthy houses that aren’t their own usually tend to be from the bottom of the barrell. They like to smoke, and fuck, and steal, and shout. It’s a punk thing, he thinks, and knows. It’s the trick to living this lifestyle; being awful in the regular world would just mean you’re awful, but here… it means you’re a god. For him, it meant something entirely different. Times like these made him wonder whether or not it was his choice to be like this. 

 

Or maybe he was just tired. It was getting to him, staring at black walls for hours on end. Burned his fucking vision. Yeah… he was probably just tired. 

 

Sirius rolled the cigarette around his fingers. It stuck to them, stuck to the paint that was still coating him. Bits of black spotted the filter. Every time his lips hit the stick , he sucks in the taste of chemicals and lead. It’s almost sweet.

 

There’s one sitting with his back pressed to the couch, his eyes barely open as he stares into the voidless ponds, and it’s heroin. There’s Milly, the chattiest, and also sexiest one who’s taken to laying long upon the couch. She owns the apartment. She’s got the whole package by most standards.. One’s in the bathroom, indicating their absence with a flush of the toilet. At least three others, two he knows, one he doesn’t, forming a circle around the couch. Hands maneuver their messages, eyes sharpening over the pool of glassy blue, a cigarette is gesticulated wildly to emphasize a point - a point of the piggish police, their brutality. It’s like this all the time. The excitement, the passions. They never leave this house.

 

They all like to talk a lot. Talk about politics, or something of the like. 

 

Don’t get him wrong - he had it in him to have a good verbal throw around with the Queen! Let the case rest that he frequently kicked her bejeweled arse many a time - really. Without his passions, where was he? It’s just -  _ it’s just _ … Well, he didn’t know what it was just. He didn’t know what was and wasn’t just. It’s bad, because he usually  _ does  _ know. 

 

He’s listless, barely there as he smokes. It’s Sirius’ way; to be in another world. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Peter-”

 

“No!” He squeaks, and it’s a noise James is so familiar with, but now, it’s like a plea. Now, it’s dipped in something realer than just the scaredest mouse. 

 

Then there’s the fact that James has always been the one to push things. A little dose of reality wouldn’t deter him from an answer. “But,  _ Peter _ !”

 

“For the billionth time, James! No! Add another ten billion onto that, and you’ll have my answer!” Peter is crying now - not literally crying; the noise a man makes when he’s broken somewhere. James wouldn’t put crying past the small man.  _ Er  _ \- boy, on second thought. “It’s like - it’s like you’ve changed! Really! I feel like I don’t even know you anymore!”

 

“Well, well, well! Bloody good excuse, innit?” It’s as if the whole world shakes as he rolls his eyes. It’s deep. It’s biting. It makes Peter flinch, even. “Like how? Like what? If you can tell me just one thing that isn’t absolutely stuffed with bullshit, I’ll buy you an ice cream. Make it a bet, even.”

 

James had stuck out his pinky, but there was none to match it. Peter just huffed a dreary little huff, shoving his hands in his pockets, effectively stopping their walk. Which was a pain, since going home after the never ending hell reel that was the factory was always the best part of James’ day. It was so strange like this. The muscles in his calves were tight with tension, ready to continue, and the smile etched relentlessly upon his features were frozen in time without a second to switch up for the scene unfolding in front of him. And now Peter wouldn’t even look at him; especially not with that tightness in his features.

 

James and Peter. James and Peter always. The words of Mrs. Filch echoed warmly, yet biting, through his mind.

 

“What?” He was never one to sigh when it came down to these situations. He always spoke in sincerity, if not barking. “What is it?” The words were spoken, but the truth didn’t need any words.

 

“... This isn’t a Christmas dinner, James.” 

 

“Er… What?”

 

“About the bullshit. The bullshit stuffing.” Peter was mumbling, as if mumbling would take back the words and the stance, the mistakes he always made. James himself couldn’t bring himself to speak, and laughing was out of the picture. Silence, most times, was the only way Peter could bring himself to speak. Silence was Peter’s elixir to courage.

 

“Okay. Okay. I’ll be straight , ” Peter continued, slow. “I don’t like the clothes you’re wearing.”

 

“Let me be the first and only to say that that’s - that’s pretty tough shit.” James wanted it to end. Peter had a way with words, and making them excruciatingly painful to hear. Ah… he hadn’t meant it like that. Not at all. It sounded harsh even if it was only in his head. “Well. If that’s all, I guess we’ll just move on then, right?”

 

“No. That’s not all. I don’t like the music you listen to. Me mum doesn’t like it, so-”

 

“Like your mum’s got anything to do with it, Pete?”

 

“-It’s not just that, James! It’s scaring me! You - you took me to that gig the other night, and I damn near pissed me pants! Those people are insane, quite frankly! Spittin’ on one another like it’s a damned baptism, and - and punchin’ each other in the face! Worst of all, you were right at the front of it with them. I couldn’t leave ‘till you came with, James! I hope you know that!” Peter took a breath, for every word had become so closely jammed together that they didn’t allow for him to quiet his pitch. James could see the way Peter’s eyes bulged at the memory, and how furiously the words sputtered out, no doubt from the subtlest of shakes. It made him forget about the piss, how Peter was a grown man. 

 

Still, Peter continued, an action that was grown enough.

 

“I don’t like it at all. Not one bit.”

 

It made so much sense to the outside world. The fear that was in him was real, James knew. It seemed so easy to ignore when he was trapped in the heat of a show, drunk off his arse, but when reality hit with the hangover, it hit in the form of grandmothers , shaking their widened eyes, mothers clucking their tongues, fathers letting their children leave with black eyes, and, worst of all, your friends… leaving. 

 

Society had left you. 

 

“All of this over you not wanting to go on a double date with me and Lily?” 

 

“It’s scaring me, James.” Peter pressed.

 

“Okay. Okay! I’ll let you have that. I won’t take you to another show. I promise.”

 

“B-but how can you, still-?” 

 

“Listen, Peter! I can’t just give it up like that! It’s a part -  _ of me _ !” But it seemed so futile now. Never in his memory could he recall a time when he’d had defended himself to Peter, so adamant about it. The act was foreign to him, and so, it seemed.. futile. “I won’t talk about it, okay? I’ll even buy you can ice cream to shut your bloody face, okay?” 

 

Peter had won the bet in the end. There was absolutely no bullshit in this conversation.

 

Nevertheless, it seemed as if Peter still had to mull it over. Ice cream. Of all things to mull.

 

“Okay.” And the word, the most relenting of words, had brought a newfound realization that for once in his life, Peter had won against James Potter. It also brought that realization that never before in his life had he and James Potter been in a battle.

 

There was once a time when only two children in Godric’s Hollow seemed to matter. One was the golden boy, the other a mouse in a field of rye. The mouse had always looked up to the sun, to bask in its glow. They would climb the trees with the older kids, and would climb even higher than where the kids had dared to go. For years, Peter had chattered away at James whatever little thought had popped into his head. James, in return, had given the gift of his attention, and a little bit of that glow.

 

It seemed for the first time ever that Peter could go without.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I haven’t been feeling right as of late.” 

 

“What is it? Has the great Sirius Black been taken down from his throne by a bitter, little cough?”

 

“Are you so set on making me sound my like mother, Remus? You sound so proper.”

 

“You’re trying to tell me that pretending to sound like a Cockney bloke like you affects your mood… how?”

 

“Let me put it this way: thinking of my mother makes my arse tighten. A tight arse means tight lips, my boy.”

 

“I don’t mean to ruin this delicious banter about mothers, boys, and asses, but you could’ve gotten to the point ages ago.”

 

“... So?”

“I feel like I’m looking at a damned puzzle, trying to find the point of this.”

 

“All I’m saying… is that I might open up to you more if you didn’t sound so proper.”

 

“Okay. All right. What if I just didn’t talk for a moment, and you could rush it all out in one breath?”

 

“That might actually work.”

 

There’s a pause, with only the sound of their boots clicking on the cobblestone of the campus.

 

“...Oh, I see! You’ve already started. That’s it. All right. So…”

 

And there’s another long pause, but this time it’s Sirius who begins it, and only Sirius who can end it.

 

“Have you ever felt the world around you suddenly turn sour?” It’s a question, because it feels so stupid to declare his feelings into the air. A question, because he doesn’t truly know if Remus knows what it’s like either, and for once, having something that’s so individually his doesn’t feel right. The things that make up Sirius are boyish smiles and wanton abandon of the things that tie you down. This feeling is bad, and that’s just not Sirius. 

 

But still, there’s no reply. Sirius knows Remus thinks he has more. It’s true. He always has more. 

 

“I don’t know when it particularly started. I’m beginning to think that, perhaps, it’s been here since I was a child. I’ve lived a… well. I  _ live  _ a decent life. I  _ like  _ the things I’m doing. The people I talk with shouldn’t even have an effect on me, s’pose it’s since I don’t see most of them for longer than five seconds besides yourself, but I do  _ like  _ them. Still, something seems to be different. If I were to pull a word out of my arse, I think it’d be something along the lines of…”

 

“Unfulfilled?” Just like that, Remus has decided he’s collected enough data to continue, which always means he at least knows a decent enough way to solve the problem.

 

“I don’t even know the meaning of the word, Remus.” 

 

“Literally, or how it applies to you?”

 

“ _ I’m not a complete moron- _ ”

 

“So, how it applies to you, then.”

 

“Just be flat out with me, doc’. I need to know if I’ll survive.”

 

“You always do, Sirius…” Remus pauses to take a delicate breath, the kind he always takes before plunging into hard news. “I think a person can explain away all their issues in life if they face it with the sort of blind positivity that you do. You’re only ignoring the signs. If you got to know yourself a bit better you might have found your answer already.”

 

“I’m not the philosophical sort, Remus. Never have been.” 

 

Remus only gives him a pitiful look. He trusts this look - much more than any words he can make fun of, at least. It tells him, “ _You always have been, you always will be, and don’t doubt yourself otherwise, Sirius_ ”, and, also, “ _I only wish you could see it for yourself_.” His mouth speaks,

 

“You’re missing something, mate. Don’t quote me on this, but it’s something you’re missing in your heart.”

 

There’s another pause. 

 

“Fuck.” The weight of a thousand bricks hits him in the chest, but it’s been there for days at least. The feel of something is much more relieving than the void he’s carried along with him, at least. It’s the certain kind of release the muscles get after a great run; it hurts, strains, and pulses its drum thrull throughout your body, but when it’s all over, it’s as if milk and honey have filled your veins. “You just scored me like you did one of your bloody tests.” 

 

“I’m hoping that doesn’t mean what I-”

 

“No, you bloody idiot! I’m saying you’re right! Though... I think I should keep that joke for later. It’s quite good, actually. Nice spotting.”

 

“I think I speak for everyone when I say that humanity itself would like to be spared your cheesy one-liners, Sirius.”

 

“Bah! As if you’d know! Like I’ve ever hit on y-”

 

“You  _ have _ . You  _ always  _ do. Drunkenly.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

James’ hands are latched on tight to the hips of the leggy bird. He can feel the curve of bone through the linen of her shirt, not much softness to be desired. She’s always been a little on the skinnier side. She’d said it was so she could fly away easier.

 

“... And I’ve decided that I should get my degree as an Engineer, though they say I could really only teach it, which I think is…”

 

“If they say something about you being a woman, give ‘em a swift kick in the knackers. Simple as that.” Something strange is happening.

 

Her hair flips about as wildly as ship sails, as it’s windy. There’s gold as the sunlight flickers through the strands of straw, oranges as the light settles and flows in a halo of warmth, and the deepest red that can only be found around her neck if you’re really, truly looking. This, and the blue sky. She’s like the screaming of the wind as it sifts through the trees.

 

“... Taking all my time studying for those damned finals, such a waste when you think about all the…”

 

“Don’t begin to waste your time on silly things like that. It’s not like you have a future, or something so imaginative as that.” Very peculiar indeed.

 

It’s his world in slow motion. It’s the way his days seem to pass so swiftly when she’s around. She takes from him in the same way a mouse steals from the pantry, cheeks full, eyes glazed. She takes, she takes, she takes. Wherever she goes, so goes the air. 

 

“... I’ve been thinking that I’d like to get a flat with you. I won’t be able to pay much rent until I graduate. Mum and Pa should help me pay, seeing as they’re already paying for University, but you can expect a  _ fat  _ check once I’ve gotten my fleet flat upon the ground.”

 

“When have you ever had your feet on the ground? Witches prefer to use brooms as their mode of transport, of course.” 

 

“James! I am  _ not  _ a witch! I can’t believe you’d even suggest that!” She’s slapped his arm, and it’s this attention that takes him out of his blur. Lily-vision, as he called it. 

 

“I’m not totally convinced. After all, your skin is the most pukish shade of pea green, your tongue is as sharp as a knife, and Peter’s pretty convinced he’s seen monkeys come shooting out of your bosom. On multiple occasions.”

 

“Oh, my!” She gasps, placing a false hand of shock over her breast. “Do you think Peter has seen me -   _ in the nude?! _ ”

 

His smile falls at that. “He’d better get something to protect his eyes, then.” And it immediately bounces right back up, and accompanied with it is a wink. “‘Cuz the twins would just blind him with their beauty.”

 

Lily lets out a laugh, then. It’s twinkling and deep and hearty and that of a nymph, but also that of an old drunken man you’d meet in a bar. James can’t think of anything more perfect - and he tries, even given the few seconds he has - before he’s met with another slap.

 

“Enough, James! Really, I’ve got so much to tell you.”

 

“You know I’ve never been good at paying attention, Lily.”

 

“I know, I know. I need you to at least try.” 

 

“I thought I was only here for morale and jokes to make you gag?” 

 

“James, I’m serious.” 

 

But so is he, in his own way. Well, only about halfway serious, but that's his way.

 

“What?” She picks up again at the confusion on his face, just the glimpse of hesitation she’s come to know so well. Her tone is light, light enough to be meant as a joke. Probably. “Do you think we’ll be able to have all fun and games for the rest of our lives?”

 

“Well, I was kind of hoping…” 

 

Lily places a hand on his cheek, the mug of which is plastered with pursed lips. It’s a kind gesture to tell him all he knows. He’s her fool, of course. The fool is naive, and seeks out a new path from which to trod or a light to follow along the darkened roads. She’s always been that light, ever since they were children in different schools. If Peter was the constant in his life, Lily was what he’d always been striving for. It only made sense that if she’d changed, he’d have to change with her -  _ for her _ . It only made sense that way.

 

Lily dropped her hand. She stepped away from his lap and filled the space with her voice. It was important, sure, but he couldn’t keep his mind on her. A thought briefly crossed his mind; Lily, with her straw and pumpkin hair. Lily, with her periwinkle dresses. Lily, with her trascient laugh. Lily, always a step ahead because it was easier to run with him than to be of the same kind.

 

The thought was stupid. Moronic.

 

_ James accepted it in an instant. Not as a truth, but as a possibility. It’s what lovers do, after all. Hope for the best until it all falls down. _

 

“I love you.” James had pulled her in tight from her hips once more, and let his fingers meld into the softness of her skin. He’d interrupted her, and a huff had proceeded to leave her lips. It only lingered so long in the air before his mouth had completely overtaken hers.

 

_ Here’s hoping... _

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There’s something memorable about the bob of brown, curly hair. It rises above the crowd. They wind like a snake, and fall flat again as easy as a sheet. It almost seems like they’re attached to the pinkest, rosiest face… when the coils are gone. So is the memory.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to update weekly, but only if my prose doesn't suffer because of it. Leave in the comments how you think it's going! Feel free to ask me questions, or point out any inaccuracies (within creative reason)! Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> (I hope people got my Bob Dylan reference. It's not the most complex one.)

**Author's Note:**

> More chapters are soon to come! Leave in the comments how you think it's going! Feel free to ask me questions, or point out any inaccuracies (within creative reason)! Hope you enjoyed it!


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